He
invented a new script,
the bogeyman might see it as a shoe
but it's not a shoe:
it's a secret battle tactic,
an open white paper,
the inferno that chased him
from beyond the forests of sorrow.
Perhaps no imperialist
can now dream
of dreams immune to mockery.
He doesn't understand the language of the shoe,
that the crow that lands on the Statue of Liberty
also sounds like a shoe.
Of course…
he might be pretending not to understand.
After he told the imprisoned world
that the warrior's language
is written in a million scripts,
from Hiroshima to Iraq,
all the souls shook themselves up
and are slipping on new shoes
on their fists.
They're printing their green signatures
on the white mansions that stole
greenery from the world's gardens;
with hoarsening voices
they're sharpening the language of the shoe.
'Once upon a time, a shoe..'
they're singing the story with pride.
We're used to seeing
Bush's face in
garbage cans, spittoons,
urinals and latrines but,
Muntazar al-Zaidi
seeing him as a shoe-stand is unique.
Hats off, Arab hero!
We're searching
for our old shoes too.
My translation of Sheikh Karimullah's Telugu poem 'viirudi bhAsha' (originally published in Prajashakti, Telugu daily, in February, 2009).